


A Singular Moment of Sentiment

by littlebassoonist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebassoonist/pseuds/littlebassoonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On what should have been Lily Evans Potter's 30th birthday, Petunia Dursley gives her nephew a photograph of his mother, the last photograph taken of her before she got that awful letter from that awful school. Harry Potter's life will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Petunia Dursley could hardly explain why she gave Harry the picture, but it seemed to make sense at the time. Her heart, which she had steeled for years with resentment and bitterness and then filled with adoration for her son, could not help but ache on the day her baby sister should have turned 30. She recalled how they had teased each other as children about this day, how Lily promised to torment her older sister on the event of _her_ 30th, revenge for boasting about being the oldest, how Petunia vowed to call her and welcome her to the old women’s club two years later. That day had come, and Lily Evans Potter was rotting in her grave, no more than a pile of bones. Petunia was grateful their parents had not survived to see their falling out, Lily’s death, her own attempt at indifference. But today, January 30, 1990, Petunia stared at the telephone and wished with all her stony heart she could call her sister. Would Lily even have access to a phone with all her… peculiarities? Would she even remember by now? She tried to strike such thoughts of foolishness and impossible phone calls from her mind, but the grief lingered. She summoned the boy, if only to look at his eyes.

“Do you know what day it is?” she asked.

“Er, Tuesday?”

For once in the boy’s life, she ignored what she perceived as cheek, whether or not it was intended. “Your mother’s 30th birthday.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t remember her, do you?” Petunia asked more coldly than she meant.

The boy’s face fell with guilt. “No, ma’am.”

She bade him wait there and walked to her bedroom. She rifled through her closet and found it, the last photograph taken of Lily Evans before she had gotten that awful letter from that awful school and that awful boy said those awful things—

Petunia returned to the confused boy whose green eyes wandered the room with boredom. “I am going to show you something, but don’t think I have forgiven her for getting herself killed and landing us with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shoved the photograph in her nephew’s direction, not daring to look at it for more than a moment. He accepted it tentatively, as through expecting a trap.

“Go on. It won’t hurt you.” This was, of course, a lie. She gave him the photograph so that perhaps Lily would stop haunting and hurting _her_ and might torment him instead. “Just think of how, if she hadn’t been so stupid, she’d be alive, and you’d get to congratulate her on becoming an old woman. Now, back to your cupboard.”

Little did Petunia Dursley know, with a singular moment of sentiment, she had just changed Harry’s life forever.

Dudley, sensing that his cousin was receiving attention and he was not, found Harry before he could reach the safety of his cupboard. Dudley snatched the photograph and gaped. 

“Who’s this?” he asked. “She’s cute!”

“My mum,” Harry responded.

Dudley, disgusted with himself, dropped the picture as though burned and bolted upstairs to wash his hands. Harry reclaimed the photograph and took refuge in his cupboard. He sat on his small, lumpy mattress and drew his knees up to his chest. He gazed at the photograph by the light of a single, weak lightbulb and took his first good look at his mother. 

She had dark red hair, not like the orange color people call red, but more of an auburn. She had freckles splashed lightly across her round face and bright, green eyes. Her face was frozen in a laugh at some unknown provocation. Harry wondered if his grandparents had said something silly or Aunt Petunia had pulled a face—maybe that was why she looked so equine and unpleasant, because her face had stuck like she told him funny faces do. His mum wore a beige skirt that reached her knees and a shirt with colorful flowers printed on it, and he remembered that this was likely from the 60s or 70s. He had a strange realization that time existed long before his memory and would continue to exist after. This gave him comfort to know the world was much bigger than his unlucky lot, that his mum had been happy before she’d died. How had this laughing girl grown up to be a careless drunk? Was his father so bad a man he could have corrupted such a lovely girl?

The idea of his father made Harry realize that he looked nothing like this woman. Grabbing the fist-sized shard of Dudley’s mirror he had filched from the rubbish when his cousin had shattered the one in his personal loo, he compared himself to her. The most obvious difference was their hair; his was messy and black. He had knobby knees where her legs looked athletic even at a young age. (Perhaps she played football?) She had a small nose, where his was average. She had full and bright lips, but his were small and subdued in color. He looked closer—they had the same eyes, round shape and green color and thick lashes, the same straight teeth, and the same small frame. If he stared hard enough at the mirror, he could see faint freckles blossoming on the bridge of his nose, but they were covered by his glasses. It was his eyes that convinced him that this really was his mother.

She was standing in a grassy field with mountains in the distance. Yellow flowers bloomed behind her. There were no people, not even when he squinted. He wondered if his mum had gone camping with her family. He had no sense of geography, having never travelled, but he thought she was probably still in England. 

Then he remembered what Dudley had said. Dudley liked to think about girls and call them cute and be mean to them on the schoolyard. He liked to tell Harry that no girl would ever like a boy with glasses or hand-me-down clothes. Harry had ignored this, as he hardly considered any girls cute. Of course, he couldn’t call his own _mum_ cute, but there were cute things about her: he liked her hair and how it seemed like fire, how her eyes—his eyes—were little jewels when she smiled, how her freckles looked like a connect-the-dots puzzle. But _she_ wasn’t cute; she was his mum. And Harry remembered Ellen Temple with her freckles on her face and the arms she raised to give answers in class, Leah Sheffield with her orangey red hair who sometimes climbed trees like he did during recess, Misha Patel whose eyes were shinier than stars even when she laughed at his too-big clothes. These girls, he decided, were cute, but his mum was _not_. 

He turned the photo over and found, in slanted handwriting that might have been his grandfather’s, “Lily 1970.” Harry Potter stared at his ten-year-old mother and vowed to learn as much as he could about Lily Evans.

Harry was a changed boy. He looked at the picture every night with the intent of seeing something new each time. He thought his handwriting was like his grandfather’s—ladies usually write much neater, he decided, so it was not his grandmother—not exactly messy but tilted at a strong angle. He decided that, had he been born a girl, he would not be called Harriet as Dudley suggested but rather Rose or Juniper or Ivy or Lavender, as his mum and aunt had been given the names of flowers. He discovered the frizz in her hair, saw the exact brand of trainers she wore, guessed by the shadows that it was about noon, and found in her pocket a piece a paper with a pen tucked behind her ear. She must have been writing a letter while on her camping trip, which made Harry wish he had a pen pal. Noon became his favorite time of day, and he would look at the shadows and think of his mum. 

His teachers noticed. The boy who had been unremarkable suddenly took an interest in British geography, asked about kinds of flowers and trees, wanted to know everything that happened in the year 1970, and wrote enchanting stories about a girl named Lily. He spoke to other students, mostly girls, and formed a sweet kinship with a Miss Ellen Temple. His primary teacher attempted to deflect any bullying she found directed toward the two from Dudley and Piers Polkiss. For the first time any instructor had seen, Harry Potter had a friend. But Harry knew better; he had become friends with Lily before, when he confessed to her that he thought Misha was pretty even when she was mean, told her all the horrible things Dudley said at school, celebrated when he got two pieces of toast because Aunt Petunia felt too ill to eat hers. Ellen was nice, but Lily was his best friend.

The Dursleys, too, noticed the change in Harry and tried to lecture or starve it out of him so that he might stop outshining Dudley in school. However, Petunia pointed out to her husband that the more normal Harry appeared, the less they would have to hear about him from teachers and the less trouble he would cause with other children. They allowed him to be no more than fourth in his class and to have one friend, whom he could visit once per month. Petunia suspected, but did not say, that she was indirectly responsible for this change in her nephew. She hoped that allowing Harry out of the house once in a while would make her stop feeling his eyes—Lily’s eyes—on her with innocent confusion and betrayal. She knew, too, that he would inevitably be taken away to that awful place and must sever all his ties with normal people. Perhaps allowing him to make a friend, only to take her away, would make him sorry for being what he was: Lily’s son.

But Petunia’s wish would not come to fruition. Even one of the worst punishments she could imagine dealing out to the boy did not snuff the newfound light in him: Aunt Marge. Marge had even less reason to hate the boy than Petunia did, but she did it even so with a passion. When she visited for Dudley’s tenth birthday, she taunted Harry with a viciousness that Petunia could never bring herself to (often because insulting Harry’s breeding would be a statement against herself). 

“Enjoy the biscuits you got for Christmas, pup?” Marge asked Harry upon her arrival. 

“Er, yes, ma’am?” Harry replied, always unsure of how to talk to Aunt Marge. If he said “no,” he’d be accused on ungratefulness, and if he chose not to speak at all, she might think he was either stupid or ignoring her.

“Of course you did, with a bitch of a mother like you had. The Colonel thought it made a wonderful joke gift, if only he knew…” 

Her prized bulldog, Ripper, growled at Harry from Marge’s arms. Harry tried to be brave, but in the face of two such dominating figures, he found it very difficult. Petunia watched him shirk back and smiled to herself that the boy was still getting the life he deserved. She had been living in such fear that the Lily in him, the _magic_ —she shuddered at the thought—in him, would emerge because of that photograph, and Vernon would confront her about what she had done. Alternatively, if she took it away, she again risked having to explain to her husband what had happened. But if anyone could scare the abnormality out of Harry, it was Marge, and no picture could fix that. 

And Petunia was almost right about her nephew that June night when Ripper chased him up a tree, not to be called off until midnight. Harry’s life was still miserable compared to that of most English nine-year-olds, but Lily did comfort him that night. He had never been allowed outside after dark, as his aunt and uncle thought that only troublemakers did such things, so he used this evening as an opportunity to stargaze. Shiny things always made him think of his mother’s eyes, so he made a game out of counting the stars. He even knew some of their names and constellations thanks to his classes. For the rest, he played connect-the-dots, much like he imagined playing with the freckles on Lily’s face or Ellen’s arms. He was even fairly sure that he saw the Venus, the Roman goddess of beauty, and as he knew no woman more beautiful than Lily, the planet reigned over him like a motherly guardian. And when he was so tired of counting stars that he nearly fell asleep in the tree, and Aunt Marge told Ripper to come inside, Harry knew he had accomplished something that his relatives could not see; he had survived their punishment, and he was not alone. His summer continued in this manner, Harry silently victorious over the Dursleys.

Harry’s tenth birthday was the best day of his life, as he finally reached the age of Lily in her photograph. He felt a deep sense of kinship with this woman, and at 11:59 PM on July 30, he counted down the seconds with her. He held her to his chest at midnight and pretended he could remember her embrace from his infancy. All he could remember of her, actually, was a flash of green and a scream. This, he supposed, was the car crash, but perhaps not. He wasn’t sure what green thing could possibly be involved in a car crash besides a traffic light, but why would it be so bright? What if the green was her eyes, and they were at a carnival where she screamed with joy on a ride? What if it was a scream of exhilaration as his father surprised her with a hug? The more Harry got to know Lily, the less he could believe that she was a good-for-nothing drunk. Maybe Aunt Petunia was mistaken, and his parents were not the drunk drivers but the victims. He liked this idea better, and he accepted it as truth when he fell asleep. 

The Dursleys did nothing to commemorate his birthday, but they allowed him to Ellen’s so that they were relieved of the responsibility of celebrating. Ellen’s family treated him to a dessert of his choice, a lemon and strawberry ice. He came to associate the taste with freckles from spending the day looking at Ellen. This was not out of any kind of attraction, though he did like her freckles, but out of a need to share his joy. They visited the zoo, where Harry marveled at the bright-eyed tiger, the silly chimps, and the frightening Komodo dragon. Ellen, terrified of all things scaly, requested that they skip the reptile house. Harry, slightly disappointed as he longed to see a real dragon, agreed for her sake. Instead, they ventured to the petting zoo to play with baby goats and lambs. At the end of the day, Ellen gave him a gardening book and a hug, the first real hug since his mother, the first hug he wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Temple did not understand why a ten-year-old boy wanted a book about flowers, but they were glad to see Ellen happy on behalf of her friend. Harry did not show his real level of happiness to the Dursleys and volunteered to stay in his cupboard all of the next day as penance for bothering them enough to have a birthday. He read his book, which had a whole chapter on lilies and a long catalogue of yellow flowers. He thanked his mother for a wonderful day, tucked her in the pages of the book, and went to bed.

Harry’s year as a ten-year-old was not extraordinary, but he found a new sense of purpose, living life on a mission. He wanted to learn as much about Lily as he could while they shared the connection of their age. He learned about every yellow flower he could—honeysuckle, dandelions, tulips, carnations, sunflowers. He loved all sweets lemon or strawberry. He found the odd things that often happened to him when he felt unpleasant stopped for months, as he felt, on the whole, emotionally better. 

This streak of ordinariness ended the week of Halloween when Uncle Vernon made his annual remarks about the Potters’ deaths, but Harry found himself so enraged that his uncle’s plate of potatoes and gravy flew into his own face with enough force to crack the plate. Uncle Vernon, with his face bright red underneath the gravy, condemned him to spend every minute not in school in his cupboard until after Halloween. Harry used this time to plan a memorial for Lily, drawing his best rendition of her photograph, collecting flowers from the schoolyard for a bouquet, and listing out all the things he knew about her. This list quickly turned into speculation and imagination, but Harry counted it all as gospel anyway. 

After November 1, he carried Lily everywhere he went. She was his guide, his comfort, and his closest friend. They celebrated their first Christmas together since he was an infant, and he told her about all the presents he had ever received from the Dursleys, ending with this year’s: a wire coat hanger from his Aunt and Uncle and a box of dog biscuits from Aunt Marge, who must have thought it so funny from the previous year that she decided to give them to him again. He decided to keep them, worthless as they might be, because the wire was rather fun to bend around, and he knew that if hungry enough, dog biscuits weren’t so bad. Maybe he would pretend that Lily has dared him to eat them, like Dudley once dared Piers to eat cat food. He promised Lily that together, they would come up with a use for his coat hanger and play dares with each other later. 

On what would have been her 31st birthday, and what was their one-year anniversary of friendship, Lily gave Harry a special treat. He was experiencing such longing for his mum, he thought he might drown. He looked at her from 21 year prior, and he saw her move. No, that couldn’t be right. Photographs didn’t move. But Harry saw it, Lily waving and laughing at the camera, skipping through the field. She made herself a flower crown, did somersaults in the fresh grass, made faces at someone behind the camera. He decided that he was probably so hungry that he imagined it all, but that didn’t stop him from noting how to make a flower crown—he’d show Ellen—how to do cartwheels, how her knees were so _not_ knobby, which only helped him speculate further about his father’s appearance. And then Lily did the unthinkable: she pulled a flower from the ground and made its petals open and close without touching it. She proudly showed her trick to the camera—no, to Harry—and smiled widely. The sunflower waved hello and goodbye over and over. When Harry had grown so mesmerized by his mother that he felt better again, she returned to her static position. 

Harry wondered if he could make a flower move on purpose. If his mum could do magic, why shouldn’t he be able to? And who was to say that his hair growing out of that horrible haircut overnight or that ugly sweater shrinking or Uncle Vernon’s potato-covered face were not magic, too? His attempts at on-purpose magic failed for a month, at which point he discovered that magic required a lot of emotion. For him, this usually meant fear or anger, but Lily had done magic out of joy. Not many things made Harry all that joyful, so he tried to remember all the horrible things Uncle Vernon said about his parents. He sulked and ruminated and thought so hard on the bad things that the lightbulb above his head burst in a shower of sparks and glass, though he was free from harm. This success gave him such happiness and excitement that the lightbulb reassembled itself and still lit up. Thus, Harry Potter, with only a little help from Lily, figured out that he was a wizard.

He told nobody but Ellen, who promptly leant him her copy of _Matilda_ , a story about a girl with powers like Harry. Harry accepted Matilda’s story as Lily’s story and added it to the canon of his mother’s history, adding to the Wormwood family one very nasty older sister. He wished very badly for his own Miss Honey to rescue him from an unhappy family, and the idea of a new year at school, and thus new teachers, gave him a bit of hope. However, until the end of term, he made sure to keep his powers a secret from everyone else, because after all, the last time Britain learned about witchcraft, people were burned at the stake, and he didn’t find this to be a pleasant prospect at all. He settled for practicing magic in the safety of his cupboard, where he could make a spider dance along the wall or turn the pages of a book without his hands. 

Harry’s life continued relatively normally until June 23, 1981. Dudley’s eleventh birthday was cause for much joy and much grief for Harry. He had already used up his allotted visit to the Temples, and Mrs. Figg was too injured to watch him, so the Dursleys reluctantly took him with them to the zoo. Piers and Dudley spent the ride to London prodding Harry for information about his supposed girlfriend, and, when that grew tiresome, they settled for simply prodding him. A trip to the zoo twice in one year was well worth the provocation, so he endured it with the thought of seeing his old favorite creatures and visiting the reptile house this time. This patience was well rewarded when Harry not only got a lemon ice from a vendor, but Dudley’s Knickerbocker glory deemed deficient of ice cream. The tiger’s eyes were just as bright and intriguing, the chimps just as silly, and the Komodo dragon even more frightening than Harry remembered. However, frightening things never stayed frightening for long when Harry remembered he was a wizard. Bolstered by this courage, he followed his family into the reptile house.

A building full of lizards, snakes, and frogs was not nearly as exciting as a building full of dragons, but Harry still enjoyed the cool, quiet atmosphere. Dudley and Piers ran from exhibit to exhibit, tapping on glass and searching for the deadliest animals they could find.

“The stupid snake won’t wake up!” Dudley whined, stomping in front of the boa constrictor. The snake, however, noticing that its tormentor’s back was turned, opened its eyes to look straight at Harry.

“Come on, Dud,” Piers said, “I bet the cobras are awake.” The two miscreants walked away, jabbering about how long it would take one to die of a cobra bite.

Harry approached the very much awake boa constrictor and read its sign:

“Born in captivity,” he said. “So your home is this glass cage?” The exhibit was bigger than his cupboard and better lit, but at least he had access to the rest of 4 Privet Drive when he wasn’t being punished.

The snake nodded. Harry was not nearly as surprised as he should have been, given that he had done much stranger things on purpose than talk to a snake. Besides, this snake wasn’t even talking back.

“Do you remember your mum and dad?”

The snake moved its head from side to side.

“Me neither. I bet yours are in Brazil.”

The snake hissed wistfully.

“I have a picture of my mum,” Harry said, drawing Lily’s faded photograph from his pocket. “It’s better than nothing.” 

The snake leaned its head closer to the glass to peer at the photograph when everything went wrong.

“The snake’s awake!” Piers cried. “And Harry’s talking to it!”

It happened very fast. Piers and Dudley bolted towards the boa and shoved Harry aside, causing Lily’s photograph to rip in two. Something between rage and grief flooded through him, and suddenly the boa constrictor was beside him, slithering out the door. The glass to its exhibit had vanished, sending Dudley tumbling into the empty habitat. Before the end of its tail wriggled out of sight, Harry swore he heard the snake say, “Thankssssss, amigo.” He was too shocked and distraught to come up with a polite reply.

The Dursleys were so frightened and enraged that Harry dared to be abnormal in public that Harry suspected he would not be allowed to leave his cupboard for an entire month. His punishment was worsened when his marks came in, and it turned out that he had made _second_ in his class—two places higher than he was allowed. In response, the Dursleys cut down his daily meals from two to one. However, Harry spent his time with purpose: mourning Lily’s photograph. He read _Matilda_ until he could quote entire passages. He ripped out pages from old books and magazines and used them to write down stories, his favorite Lily memories, and even to make origami flowers as Ellen had taught him. He used his grief to practice his magic and vowed to himself that, if it was the last act of magic he performed, he would restore her picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started as a slight AU, something of a butterfly effect experiment. I am a big Harry/Ginny fan but wanted something different from the "soul bond" trope that pervades that side of the fandom. I also felt that not nearly enough attention is paid to Harry's childhood in the books, and so this fic was born. I know that my Harry is on the shy, serious side and is much more in touch with his emotions, but I promise the Sassy!Harry we all know and love will return. 
> 
> If I've made any major violations of canon (outside of the premise of this AU, obviously), please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

Minerva McGonagall made a habit of monitoring occurrences of underage magic in Muggleborns who were not yet old enough to attend Hogwarts. She paid special attention to the ten-year-olds, as they were fast approaching their entrance to the magical world. Her eyes scanned a thick tome in which names appeared whenever the Ministry detected such instances of underage magic, glossing over names like Finch-Fletchley, Granger, and Hopkins, when she saw one that surprised her: Potter. She had, of course, asked the Ministry to add Harry to their record of Muggleborns due to his upbringing—as were a handful of half-bloods each year—but she did not expect to see “Potter, Harry: 10 June 1981, Reductor Curse and Repairing Charms, repeatedly.” She was used to seeing Summoning Charms, _engorgio_ , and _wingardeum leviosa_ and the occasional act of transfiguration, but never something so deliberate as to destroy and repair an object over and over. The boy’s eleventh birthday was fast approaching, as was her visit to indoctrinate him into the magical world. However, with such a blatant awareness of his own magical abilities, Harry Potter might require a visit sooner rather than later. 

Albus Dumbledore chose to make the visit himself, intending no slight against his Deputy Headmistress, but rather to satisfy his own curiosity about the boy. After McGonagall’s report about Harry’s reducto-reparo game—which turned out to be a repeating incident, going back to February—he kept a close watch on all further magic from the boy as well as read through his past incidences. It seemed Harry had taught himself how to animate photographs, open and flip the pages of a book, and make spiders do a tapdance. The boy had been increasing in his magical abilities for about half a year, prompting the old wizard to wonder what, if anything, had triggered Harry’s sudden awareness of his own magic and his subsequent desire to control it? He thought darkly of another visit he once made to a half-blood orphan who, too, taught himself magic. 

Meanwhile, Harry Potter was still confined to his cupboard for the events at the zoo on Dudley’s birthday. He knew that it would soon be his eleventh birthday, and he would then lose his connection to Lily. His tenth year had undoubtedly been the best year of his life, much of which he attributed to Lily’s companionship and guidance. He had started off with his first trip to the zoo with his best (three-dimensional) friend, made second-to-top marks in class, learned he was a wizard, fell in love with a book for the first time, and even taught himself how to do magic. The year was drawing to a close, however, and Harry was a bit frightened of what lay ahead—would Lily not mean as much once he had surpassed her in age? His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. As was his custom, he laid on the dusty floor of his cupboard and stuck his ear to the crack underneath the door.

“Our door clearly says ‘no solicitors,’” Uncle Vernon grumbled before opening the front door. 

“Is Mr. Potter available?” a strange, old voice asked. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat—never had a visitor asked to see _him_! Could this be a long-lost relative of his mother’s? Could Lily’s father be alive?

“No, he is not. Good day.” Harry heard the door start to close, but it caught on something solid that sounded rather like a shoe.

“I must insist on seeing young Mr. Potter,” the stranger said. 

“You’ve got the wrong house!” Uncle Vernon’s voice rose in volume, and his face was almost certainly scarlet. Lighter, high-heeled footsteps joined the fray.

“Oh, Petunia!” the stranger exclaimed. “It has been quite some time, hasn’t it? I’m afraid we never met in person, only by post.”

Uncle Vernon gasped loudly. “You know this… this crackpot, Petunia?”

“Perhaps,” the stranger said, “while I meet with Mr. Potter, you two may catch up on my previous correspondence with Petunia Dursley née Evans. Now, if you don’t mind—”

What happened next, Harry could only guess. Clearly, his aunt and uncle _did_ mind, but there was a clatter as the door swung upon and knocked over the umbrella stand. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia started to object, but their voices were silenced as if by a mute button on the television, and the front door closed with satisfying thud. The old man took long, deliberate steps until he arrived in front of Harry’s cupboard. Harry could see the man was wearing wore boots, which struck him as odd as it was still summer. A piece of long, purple cloth just barely touched the floor by the man’s feet, rather like the hem of a dress. What sort of man might wear boots and a purple dress in the summer but a—?

“Mr. Harry Potter, might I have a word?”

Harry jumped up from the floor and tried to open his cupboard when he realized that the door was still locked. He started to panic—a real, flesh and blood wizard might be on the other side of that panel, his escape from boring life with the Dursleys—could this be his own Miss Honey?—but he was foiled by something as simple as a lock. And then, without warning, the locked clicked, and Harry toppled out of his cupboard. He felt the same sort of tingling as when he reconstructed his lightbulb; apparently he could magic locks open, as well.

“Mr. Potter, my name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the current Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Have your aunt and uncle told you anything about this school?”

Harry tried very hard to absorb what Albus Dumbledore was saying. “Er, no, sir. Are you here to tell me that I’m… that I’m a wizard?”

Dumbledore raised his silver eyebrows, and behind his half-moon spectacles, his eyes glistened with amusement. “That is exactly why I am here, though it is not often that children such as yourself already know about their true identities. I am most impressed. Are you quite sure your aunt and uncle never said anything?”

Harry cast an uncertain look at his relatives, who still seemed to be struggling to speak.

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore said, and with a snap of his fingers, the Dursleys could speak again. “I would ask that you give us some privacy to have this conversation. In the meantime, Petunia, why don’t you fill your husband in?”

“We can talk in my cupboard,” Harry suggested, though he immediately regretted it. Dumbledore looked much too tall to fit underneath the stairs. However, the old wizard gave a wave of his hand, and Harry’s cupboard looked at least twice as big on the inside as he remembered. 

“That sounds delightful.”

Harry sat on the edge of his bed while Dumbledore conjured himself a squashy armchair out of nowhere. He suddenly felt quite embarrassed about the spiders that lived under his mattress, the ripped-out pages of books along the floor, and the shrine to his mother made of drawings and dried flowers.

“I suspect there is more to this story than your aunt or uncle know,” said Dumbledore.

“I’m not sure they even know about magic,” Harry admitted. “I’ve only told one person, my best friend, Ellen, and we decided that it would be best to keep it secret. I don’t fancy being burned at the stake.” At this, Dumbledore chuckled.

“And you discovered this all on your own?”

“Well, not _entirely_ ,” he said, and he pulled Lily’s faded, ripped photograph from his pocket. “It’s rather silly, though.”

“Ah!” Dumbledore gasped. “Lily Evans! She was only a bit older than in this picture when she herself came to Hogwarts.”

“So she was a… a…a witch?”

“Yes, Harry. Don’t worry; it our world, there is nothing mean or vulgar in calling a magical woman what she properly is: a witch. And your mother was quite a talented one at that. But how did you learn about magic from this photograph?”

“It moved,” Harry whispered, quite afraid of appearing mad. “She came to life in the picture and showed me things. And then it made sense, how sometimes I could do things like make Uncle Vernon’s dinner fly into his face or appear on the roof when Dudley chased me. If she could do it on purpose, I thought that I could, too.”

“Certainly. But now, Harry, there is much I have to tell you. You were correct in thinking that Lily could do magic. In fact, both of your parents were incredibly talented—top of their class at Hogwarts. It is no surprise that you are quite a promising wizard.”

“Sir,” Harry said, his mind spinning with thoughts of his father, “did Aunt Petunia know about my parents and what they were?”

“Yes, but some Muggles, this is, non-magical people, do not take kindly to our world. As you mentioned before, we were once burned at the stake by frightened Muggles.”

Harry’s thoughts picked up in momentum. His parents were magical and powerfully so. If magic could unlock doors and vanish glass and expand rooms, surely it could protect people during a car crash. They might have vanished the windshield or turned the metal into downy pillows or simply levitated the car out of the street. “Sir, what if Aunt Petunia is wrong? If they were magic, couldn’t my parents have survived the car crash?”

“Car crash?” Dumbledore whispered.

Harry brushed his fringe aside to reveal his scar. “That is how they died, isn’t it? And how I got my scar?”

“No, Harry, it is not. And, I’m sorry to say this, but your parents did not survive what did kill them. About twenty years ago, a very evil wizard who called himself Voldemort came into power. He believed that Muggles were like animals, and that witches and wizards who had Muggle parents—like your mother—were unworthy of magic. Voldemort and his followers started a dreadful war in which your parents fought valiantly. On Halloween of 1981 he sought to kill your parents himself. Voldemort killed your parents, Harry, but when he tried to kill you, he could not. Your mother sacrificed herself for you, and her love protected you from Voldemort’s curse. _That_ is how you got your scar, and that is why you survived, even as a baby.” Dumbledore clasped his hands together with a sense of finality.

“So is this Voldemort dead?” Harry asked.

“Some believe so, yes. But I think not. I have reason to believe that when he tried to kill you, he became something less than human, a kind of spirit biding his time to gain his strength. Of course, I have no real proof of this, so these just might be the musings of a paranoid, old man.”

Harry did not know how to respond, so he merely nodded.

“Your parents loved you very much, Harry.”

This reminded Harry of something very important.

“Sir, do you think you could mend my photograph?” he asked. 

Dumbledore smiled and picked up the halves of Lily’s picture. He pulled out a long, intricately-decorated wand and waved it over the two pieces, which quickly snapped the halves together. There was not even a seam where they were joined. Of course, neither was there a seam where Harry had reconstructed the lightbulb over and over, but he had imagined that Lily’s picture simply wouldn’t be the same after being ripped. The older wizard handed the photograph back to Harry.

“Thank you, sir.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Do I get a wand like that?”

“You will get a wand, yes, though no two wands are exactly the same.”

“How do I get one? I don’t even have any money.”

“There is a section of London called Diagon Alley, the main avenue of the London wizarding community. There you can find stores for all of your school supplies, including a wand, as well as the wizard bank, Gringott’s, where your parents left you quite a sum.”

“And how do I get there?”

“I will take you, of course. Ah, pardon me, I’ve forgotten something rather important.” Dumbledore withdrew an envelope from his robes and handed it to Harry. It was addressed to him, down to the cupboard where he slept, and written in shiny, emerald ink. It read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to informed you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all your necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours Sincerely,_  
_Minerva McGonagall  
_Deputy Headmistress__

"So, Harry, do you wish to attend Hogwarts?"

“Of course!”

"Then I think we can forgo the owl, and I will simply report back to Professor McGonagall myself. Once we are at Diagon Alley, we can consult your supply list. Now, off we go.”

As soon as they left the cupboard, the Dursleys confronted Dumbledore. Even Dudley peered his piggy head around his father to see who had come for Harry.

“I’m not sure what sort of nonsense tales you’ve been feeding him in there—” Uncle Vernon began.

“Harry will be coming to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore stated simply, but his voice carried with it a heavy sense of authority that even the Dursleys could not ignore. “You will take him to King’s Cross on the morning of September 1, and you will pick him up on June 30. For the other ten months out of the year, we will take care of him. Am I understood?”

Harry’s relatives nodded dumbly. Dumbledore led him out the front door, where Harry was suddenly quite aware of the older man’s ridiculous attire. However, Dumbledore’s appearance was quickly one of the least preposterous things about him when he stuck his right arm into the street, and a massive, purple bus came roaring down Privet Drive. The door swung open, and Dumbledore gestured for him to climb inside.

“Professor Dumbledore!” a young voice exclaimed. “What’re you doin’ on the Knight Bus?” A man no older than 20 greeted them onto the bus, but his eyes were fixed over Harry’s head and onto the Headmaster behind him.

“Just running errands with a young friend,” Dumbledore said. “Just the two of us to the Leaky Cauldron, please.” He exchanged a few coins with the pimply-faced conductor. “I’m glad to see you’ve found work, Stan.”

_____Dumbledore and Harry took their seats, which slid around the bus as it accelerated and slowed down. Harry imagined this is what a roller coaster must feel like. Only a few other passengers were riding, but every single one of them kept their eyes glued on the pair, and, unlike with Stan, Harry realized they were interested in _him_. Dumbledore, though, kept the two of them distracted by answering his questions about the wizarding world._ _ _ _ _

Harry learned more than his mind could hold: how there was a Ministry of Magic with its own Minister; how 29 bronze Knuts made one silver Sickle, and 17 Sickles made a gold Galleon; how all of the wizarding world knew his name because of what happened to him as a baby; how Hogwarts split its students into Houses based on their personalities; and every anecdote he could squeeze out of the Headmaster about his parents. James and Lily were both brave Gryffindors who made top marks and much mischief. Though Dumbeldore told him about Lily’s close friendship with a Mary McDonald—now Cattermole—Marleen McKinnon, and Dorcas Meadowes, he seemed remarkably quiet on James’s friends. Harry didn’t mind so much, as he had not been spending the past year and a half forming a deep attachment to his father. He learned that Marleen was his mother’s maid of honor, that Lily was a genius for Potions and Charms while James favored Transfiguration, that Lily was hopeless on a broom, but his father was a Quidditch star. Dumbledore did not go into the details of Quidditch—“I’m really no expert, not when your classmates will surely do a better job”—but he did promise to take Harry for a peek around one of the broom stores.

Before long, they were at the Leaky Cauldron, which looked to Harry to be a rather run-down pub. To his infinite shock, not a single Muggle had seemed to notice the triple-decker bus as it zoomed from place to place. Nor did they pay any mind to the Leaky Cauldron, not even glance or a moment’s pause. But once he walked inside, it seemed everyone’s attention was fixated on one thing: him. At least five people shook his hand before Dumbledore politely but loudly asked everyone to give Harry some space. It seemed as though Dumbledore could get anyone to do what he asked if he said it in the right voice, and Harry wondered if they would teach him how to do that at Hogwarts.

There were a million things to catch his eye, crowds of people, foul smelling cauldrons, bizarre animals, and advertisements for newt eyes and bat spleens, five knuts per scoop each. Harry had never been allowed to shop for himself before, so his legs could not take him to the wizard’s bank fast enough. Fortunately, it seemed to be at the heart of the neighborhood with imposing columns and inscriptions warning against thievery.

"Has anyone ever broken into Gringotts?” Harry asked, eyeing one of the threats.

"Yes, but none of them have ever made it out,” Dumbledore replied cryptically, his eyes shining knowingly behind his glasses.

A rather cross goblin took them to Harry’s vault by way of a mine cart, which was even more like a roller coaster than the Knight Bus had been. Trying not to stare too obviously at the stacks of gold, silver, and bronze before him, he swept a large handful of coins into his pockets. Once he returned to the cart, Dumbledore kindly handed him the vault key.

“No need for Hagrid to keep this now,” he said.

“Hagrid?” Suddenly the cart jerked forward, and Harry had to strain to hear the old man talk.

Dumbledore did not seem fazed by the wild ride, no more than he was by the Knight Bus, and merely raised his voice over the whirring of air. “The groundskeeper and keeper of keys at Hogwarts. Since you have no living magical relatives, I gave the key to your vault to him for safe keeping.”

“Is there other stuff my parents left me?” Harry asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid,” Dumbledore began with a tired sigh, “when Voldemort came to your house that night, most everything they had was destroyed.”

“Do you think I could go there? Where the house was, I mean.”

“It has actually been turned into something of a memorial for your family in honor of you defeating Voldemort.”

The cart halted when Dumbledore spoke Voldemort’s name. Harry could not tell if this was a coincidence, because they had indeed arrived back at the bank’s surface, but all of the surrounding goblins and humans glared at him, as though he had just uttered a swear. The old wizard seemed unperturbed.

“Come, Harry. Your shopping list is with your Hogwarts letter. Why don’t we get your robes first?”

But Harry barely heard him, and it was not because they were outside of the bank and in the middle of a bustling herd of wizards. He was not distracted by the bizarre potion ingredients, the fascinating book titles, or even the broom shop around which all of the children crowded. It was there, in the middle of Diagon Alley, surrounded by robe-clad adults chattering about cauldron prices and magical politics, that Harry saw his mother.

\- - -

Ginevra Molly Weasley was _not_ Lily Evans Potter, and Harry figured this out after about six seconds of staring at the little girl—her hair was wrong, her eyes were wrong, her freckles were wrong, even her smile was wrong. Still, she was a bright-eyed, freckled ginger who looked about ten years old, and she was wearing a flowery shirt and beige skirt. Dumbledore saw Harry’s eyes light up when they landed on the young girl, and he immediately guessed the boy’s interest.

“I say it’s about time you make a friend in the wizarding world. Shall we?”

Dumbledore led him to the woman who must have been the girl’s mother. “Molly Weasley! It’s been too long.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Mrs. Weasley gasped, holding her daughter’s hand close. “What brings you here?”

“I was just showing young Harry around when I remembered I have some good news for your family.” Harry shyly made eye contact with the girl. No, she was not Lily, but she seemed kind. Before she had noticed him, she looked especially happy and excited, browsing broomsticks. “You’ll get the owl soon enough, but Percy has been chosen as a Prefect.”

“Oh, I just knew we’d get another Prefect in the family!” she gushed. “Percy, a Prefect—is that Harry Potter?”

“Yes. I gave him his letter just today. And I don’t believe I’ve met your youngest?”

“Professor Dumbledore, this is Ginevra. She’s still too young for Hogwarts, I’m afraid, but my Ronald is attending this year.” Mrs. Weasley suddenly remembered herself. “Hello, Harry. It’s so nice to meet you, isn’t it, Ginevra?”

“Don’t call me Ginevra, Mum,” she mumbled. “I’m Ginny.

“Er, I’m Harry. But you knew that.”

The adults continued to chat about Mrs. Weasley’s other children; it seemed that there were seven in all, but only Ginny accompanied her to Diagon Alley today.

“So when do you go to Hogwarts?” he asked.

“Next year,” Ginny replied miserably. “Ron goes this year, and then I’m all alone at home with Mum and Dad. But…” she looked at her mum shiftily, “if they’re all gone, it’s easier for me to sneak out on their brooms.”

“You can fly?”

“Better than Ron.” Pride grew in her voice, and her hesitations about talking to him faded.

Harry looked longingly at Quality Quidditch Supplies. “Can you teach me?”

Ginny blushed as red as her hair. “Bill says they give you flying lessons in your first year. You’ll learn at Hogwarts.”

“But there’s over a month until term. And Dumbledore says my dad was a star Quidditch player, and I don’t even know how the game works!”

“I can teach you _that_ ,” she said with a grin. “But it’s rather a lot of rules. Say, what’s your address so I can send you an owl?” Harry’s face must have been in complete shock, because she quickly covered, “Most owls don’t need to know the exact place, but ours is a but old and slow, so we like to be careful.”

“I, er, don’t have an owl,” he admitted.

Dumbledore interrupted their conversation. “We were just on our way to Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, weren’t we, Harry?”

“Oh!” Harry fished in his pocket for the envelope that had held his Hogwarts letter. He kept the letter and equipment list for himself, but he gave the envelope with his address to Ginny. “Never mind the bit about the cupboard.”

It seemed that they were about to part, as the adults were making their farewells. “Mum, mum!” Ginny said just before their goodbye. “Can Harry come visit so we can teach him how to fly? He doesn’t even know about Quidditch!” 

“We’ll see Ginny.” 

At that, she shot Harry a brilliant grin. “I’ll write to you as soon as I get home!”

“Don’t bother the poor boy,” Mrs. Weasley chided.

“I don’t mind, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said. 

“You’ll get the letter as fast as Errol can fly!” Ginny yelled over her shoulder, skipping alongside her mother.

“Great!” Harry shouted. He suddenly missed Ellen, but he was inexplicably thrilled at the idea of writing letters to Ginny and learning about her family. He wondered briefly how his heart could handle caring for so many people, when he spent so long dividing his attention only between Ellen and his mum with a focus on the latter. He could ask Ginny what did about having six brothers and a mum and dad. 

Dumbledore and Harry did not actually go to the Owl Emporium straight away. Instead, they bought his school robes and a trunk that he suspected was charmed to fit more than it appeared to, just like Dumbledore had done with his cupboard. For the meantime, his trunk was shrunk down to fit in his pocket and was not scheduled to grow back until midnight.

Eeylops Owl Emporium had more kinds of owls than Harry knew existed. He found himself drawn to a very pretty snowy owl, bright white and with a proud stance. Much to his surprise, Dumbledore did not allow him to buy it.

“Hagrid told me to get you a birthday present from him,” he said, “and I think an owl will do just fine, especially with your new friendship blossoming.”

“Sir, I don’t even know Hagrid!” That a total stranger would offer to buy him a gift confused him to no end. “And it’s not even my birthday.”

“Today is July 17, so it is only two weeks away. In my experience, that is not too early to give a birthday gift at all.”

Harry had not even realized there were conventions to early gift-giving. “But I don’t know him.” 

“You may not know Hagrid, but he knows you. He was the one who brought you from your parents’ house to your aunt and uncle the night after they died. He loved your parents, and I think he has felt a bit of a connection to you ever since flying you across the country.”

“Flying? Were we on a broom?” Harry could not imagine even a Quidditch star like his father allowing babies to be flown on broomsticks.

“You were on a flying motorcycle that belonged to one of James’s friends. He cried when he handed you to me. I believe he has missed you ever since, but our kind has strict rules about revealing ourselves to Muggles.” 

“Can I have his address, then? To write to him?”

“Certainly.” Dumbledore smiled and paid for the owl, who seemed unsure of whether or not she should trust Harry. “As long as you let her out, she will hunt for herself. She’s also very bright in geography and navigation.” The owl stood proudly on the perch in her cage at that, as though she understood when she was being praised.

The rest of Harry’s time in Diagon Alley continued to be so fresh and fun that he almost forgot to miss his mother. He was too busy being excited to be sad for her memory. He and Dumbledore ate lunch at a café that promised its food was charmed to remain at the perfect temperature no matter how slow it was eaten. He was only allowed to purchase a pewter cauldron, rather than the solid gold one he had been eyeing, but Dumbledore did concede when he asked to get the deluxe potion ingredient kit—complete with a mortar and pestle, two knives, and three shapes of vials—rather than the standard. His mind was not on Lily, exactly, but rather her legacy; she had been a fine potion-maker, and he wanted to honor her memory in that. For this same reason he bought a small charms book that was not on his reading list that advertised itself as “perfect for a bright beginner” and was covered with dancing cartoon dishes. He eyed _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ excitedly, and hoped as he made his purchases that he would be able to live up to his parents’ reputations.

When Harry thought he had crossed every item off his list, Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh, a wand!” How could he have missed the most important part of his trip to Diagon Alley? He hoped his would be as intricate as Dumbledore’s, though he suspected that was something reserved for either very rich or very experienced wizards.

They entered a shop called Ollivander’s where an old man with wide eyes greeted them. The man, presumably Ollivander, did not blink very often, which made him seem more ghostly than his small frame already did. Rows and rows of what looked like shoeboxes lined the shelves of this shop, and if each box contained a wand, there must have been thousands.

“Ah! Mr. Potter, I’ve been expecting to see you soon. And Dumbledore, it’s always a pleasure, though I do wish you would tell me what is wrong with the wand my father made you. Nothing to be ashamed about, I’ve heard every excuse. No? Fine. Harry Potter, back in the wizarding world at last. You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches, swishy, made of willow. Nice for charm work.” Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. Of course, he knew he had his mother’s eyes, but to hear it from somebody who could remember her alive was thrilling, as was the confirmation that she excelled at charms. “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.” 

All the while, Mr. Ollivander was taking Harry’s measurements, as though he were getting fitted for another set of robes. He didn’t seem to notice that Harry wasn’t talking back. When he took his tape measure around Harry’s head, he paused, suddenly fixated on Harry’s scar.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do….”

He then began asking Harry to test out different wands. Anytime one of the wands shared a quality with one of his parents’, he got a gush of hope that it might choose him. He tried wands from trees he would never have thought of, and the pile of wands that rejected him grew higher and higher: a flexible beechwood and dragon heartstring, a whippy maple and phoenix feather, a springy ebony and unicorn hair, and so many more. Harry began to wonder if this was all a joke, and he was not a good enough wizard to deserve a wand. 

“I wonder… Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

The moment the wand touched his palm, Harry brushed aside any doubts of his magical ability. A warm glow emanated from it, and he gladly gave it a wave, causing sparks to burst from its tip. He was only the tiniest bit disappointed that his wand was so different from his mother’s, and the only thing he had in common with his father’s was its length. 

“Curious… How very curious…” Mr. Ollivander gave Dumbledore a knowing look.

“What’s curious?” asked Harry, finally finding his words.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander said, and Harry did not doubt him. “It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar. And that phoenix belongs to none other than the man behind you!”

Harry whipped around to look at Dumbledore, who seemed unamused at Mr. Ollivander’s speech.

“You have a pet phoenix?” Harry asked incredulously, even though it was by far one of the least ridiculous things he had heard that day. “And its feather is in _my_ wand? _And_ Voldemort’s?” The coincidence seemed too great to be true.

“Yes, Dumbledore,” Mr. Ollivander said, “it would seem Fawkes’s two wands are destined for greatness. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great—”

“Garrick,” said Dumbledore in the most authoritative voice Harry had heard from him yet, “that is enough. Harry needs to buy his wand so that I can return him to his relatives.”

They took the Underground home from London rather than the Knight Bus, even though they attracted a large number of stares from carrying an owl and a number of strange packages on top of Dumbledore’s purple robes and magnificent beard. Harry was much quieter than on his trip up. He was still in awe at his guide and future headmaster for all of his authority and command, but his reaction to Mr. Ollivander was unsettling.

“Sir?” He asked after much silence. “May I have Hagrid’s address?”

“Tell her to go to Hogwarts. She should find it perfectly.” Dumbledore had returned to his gentler, more cryptic self, but Harry knew he ought not ask too many questions about magic in front of so many Muggles. Fortunately, he found it easy to sit quietly after such a busy day. Harry hardly paid attention to where they were going when they left the Underground, and he was shocked to find himself back at Number 4 Privet Drive.

“I do hope the rest of your summer is a bit more comfortable,” Dumbledore said at the doorstep. “And don’t forget about your trunk; I we don’t need you ruining a pair of trousers when it grows back to size.”

“Thank you for everything, sir.”

Dumbledore paused, eyeing him carefully. “You are a very bright and serious young man. I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts.” 

When the Dursleys were finished yelling at him about bringing an owl into the house—only made worse by Errol tapping on their window in the middle of the rant—and they made him swear not to do anything abnormal, especially not in front of the neighbors. He tried not to seem too happy about returning to his newly-enlarged cupboard, where he could read his books and write letters as long as he pleased. When he went to bed, he slept more soundly than he had in a long, long time. 

\- - -

“A cupboard, Albus?” Minerva McGonagall cried as her colleague sat in her office, explaining his recent journey with Harry Potter.

“I’m afraid so. I did, however, expand it a bit for the boy’s comfort.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me how they were starving and beating him, too.”

“I have no evidence that Harry has been beaten.”

“So they _are_ starving him.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I have explained to you over and over, Minerva, why it is imperative that Harry live with the Dursleys.”

“Well, he’s going to have to deal with his own fame sooner or later!”

“It is not just the fame. He needs that protection of blood magic.”

“And how well protected do you suppose he will be when someone finally wises up calls the Muggle Child Protective Services?”

“No one has reported anything thus far.”

McGonagall stared at him over her glasses. “I didn’t say it would be a Muggle who made the call.”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore said, pained. 

“If he is sorted into my House, Albus, I will take whatever measures are necessary to keep him safe. And I assure you, Pomona and Filius would do exactly the same.” She straightened a stack of confirmation letters from new students and stood up to leave her office. “You better hope for the sake of your grand scheme that the Potter boy is in Slytherin, but even Severus might find some semblance of compassion in his heart!”


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Harry,

I can’t believe it! I’m writing to the Harry Potter. The actual Boy Who Lived with the Lightning Scar. I think I might be dreaming. Mum doesn’t understand, but I told her it would be like if she got to meet and owl Celestina Warbeck, a magical singer who Mum loves. She thinks that I’m bothering you. I hope I’m not. Am I?

This is Errol, our owl. Like I said he’s old and slow and he will need some rest before coming home. I heard Mum say that she and Dad are going to buy Percy a brand-new owl since he’s a Prefect and all. Bill and Charlie, my two brothers older than Percy, were Prefects, too. I think I’d like to be one, except when Percy talks about it, and it seems awful. Bill and Charlie made it cool and fun. Percy makes it boring. Fred, George, and Ron all say they don’t want to be one. 

I hope you’ll owl me during the schoolyear, too. Ron says he’ll write all the time, but I know him better than that. I’ll be lucky to get one letter a fortnight. 

It’s close to dinnertime, and Errol doesn’t like flying all night, so I’m going to stop now and send him your way.   
From,  
Ginny Weasley  
PS: Why is your address The Cupboard Under the Stairs?

\- - -

Dear Mr. Hagrid,

My name is Harry Potter, Lily and James’s son. I am writing to you to say thank you for the birthday present, which happens to be this owl. I am sorry that I don’t remember you, but I would like to know more about you and my parents. Thank you very, very much.

Sincerely,  
Harry Potter

PS: Please send your reply with my owl, Hedwig. My aunt and uncle will be angry if any more owls come to our house. Thanks again.

\- - -

Dear Ginny,

Thank you so much for your letter. Do all wizards use quills and parchment? I haven’t gotten the hang of a quill yet, so I’m using the Muggle stuff. I had to steal some napkins from the kitchen to write on. I might tear out pages from the backs of books, too, the blank ones. My aunt and uncle say that I can’t have any of Dudley’s, as he needs paper for school, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dudley do even a page of homework. 

Dudley’s my cousin, by the way. 

You’re not bothering me at all. I’ve never had a pen pal. Not many kids at school talk to me, since Dudley’s sort of a bully. I do have a friend named Ellen, though. She knows that I’m a wizard, but I’m not allowed to tell her that there are other people like me out there. I have so many questions about the magical world and nobody to ask but you. First, I really want to know the rules of Quidditch. There were so many kinds of supplies in that store that I couldn’t really figure out the rules. All I can tell is that it involves broomsticks and a lot of balls. 

Don’t worry about my address. My cupboard is much cozier now that Dumbledore expanded it for me. Did you know that magic can make rooms bigger on the inside than the outside? He even left the armchair that he made appear, so I have somewhere soft to sit and read. And sometimes there are spiders in my cupboard, but I learned how to make them dance if I concentrate hard enough. Ever since I learned I was a wizard, my cupboard hasn’t been so bad at all.

From,  
Harry Potter

PS: I think I’ll call my owl Hedwig. I saw it in one of my books. She doesn’t like my cupboard very much. Also don’t worry if she has another letter with you when she gets there. I had another person to write to.

\- - -

Harry, 

Can’t say much cause I’m crying all over the parchment. Can’t believe you wrote to me! I’m not much good at writing, but you can visit me once term starts. I live beside the castle with my dog, Fang. Mostly I just tend to the grounds and make sure nothing too dangerous comes out of the forest. And you don’t need to call me Mr. 

It’s not much, but I have an announcement from your parents’ wedding. Wasn’t able to go myself, what with the war. I hope you like it.

Hagrid

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter

are proud to announce the marriage of their son

JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER

to

LILY JOY EVANS

on the 21st of December, 1978

2:00 in the afternoon at the Potter Residence. 

\- - -

Dear Harry,

I’m so sorry!!! I completely forgot to tell you about Quidditch. That’s what this letter will be for. So here goes. There are seven players on a team—three Chasers, two Beaters, a Seeker, and a Keeper. At each end of the pitch, there’s three hoops. The Keeper guards those so that the Chasers from the other team can’t score. The Chasers fly around throwing and catching the Quaffle, a big, red ball, and trying to get past the Keeper. Each time they get through one of the hoops is ten points. That’s my favorite part of the game, Chasing. Quidditch would be simple enough if that was all there was to it, but there’s so much more.

You have two more balls called Bludgers. They’re heavy and black and fly all over and try to knock you over. So the Beaters have bats to knock the Bludgers around. They try to protect the people on their team and hit the people on the other team. Fred and George are Beaters at Hogwarts. The got on the team as second-years, which is cool. Don’t tell them I said so. Beaters have to be a good team of their own, so I guess it’s good that Fred and George are twins. The Bludgers are what make Quidditch extra dangerous and why Mum doesn’t like it. Once, Charlie got hit and got his head cracked open. His head! They fixed it with magic okay, but Mum was furious.

And then there’s Seeker, which is what Charlie played. There’s one more ball in the game, the Snitch. It’s tiny and gold and flies with little wings. If you catch it, you get 150 points and the game ends. That’s what the Seeker does, fly after the Snitch and try to catch it. 

That’s Quidditch. It’s the best thing in the world, if you ask me! There’s loads of other rules about fouls and that lot, but this is all you really need to know.

From,  
Ginny

PS: Don’t worry if Errol isn’t ready for the trip home yet. Hedwig seems eager enough.

\- - -

Dear Ginny,

Quidditch sounds a bit like the Muggle sport football, except flying and with three goals. Suddenly football seems much less cool now that I know that there are people who play a sport on broomsticks.

Errol is doing OK. He has been sleeping mostly, and I’ve been making sure to give him food and water. (I have to be sneaky, though.) I think he should be ready to go back home soon. On the other hand, Hedwig seems happy to be useful, and the trip only takes her half a day.

Not much is going on here. My aunt and uncle are upset about there being owls in the house, but the only alternative is owls pecking on the windows of the house, which is a lot more annoying. Speaking of owls, Hedwig is actually a birthday gift from a man called Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts and knew me when I was a baby. I wrote him a letter to thank him, and when he wrote back, he cried all over the paper. He seems very nice and wants to tell me about my family. I found out from him that my grandfather’s name was Fleamont.

Fleamont! And it was my dad’s middle name, too. My grandmum was called Euphemia, which at least sounds pretty, even if it is weird. Do a lot of wizards have weird names? My parents just called me Harry James. 

From,  
Harry

\- - -

Dear Harry,

Some wizard families use “normal” names, like mine. My parents are Arthur and Molly, and my brothers are William (Bill), Charles (Charlie), Percy, Fred, George, and Ronald (Ron). And then… Ginevra. 

Ginevra? Really? I want to know who made that decision and why. That’s why I go by Ginny, but then strangers think my name is Virginia. 

I don’t know too many funny Weasley names, but there’s my dad’s dad Septimus and my uncle Bilius. My dad’s mum was called Cedrella, but she was a Black before she got married and they have funny names. (Mum says I’m not allowed to say that, but it’s true.) Cedrella is probably one of the nicest ones.

My mum’s side, the Prewetts, aren’t too bad. Mum had two brothers called Fabian and Gideon, which is a little odd, I guess, but not too bad considering names like Fleamont. Some of my brothers didn’t get off so lucky, either, since Ron’s middle name is Bilius and Percy’s is Ignatius—mum’s uncle. 

So there you go, some more wizarding names. Fleamont and Euphemia are definitely worse than most of the ones in my family, but I’ll let you know if I learn of any others.

From,  
Ginevra Molly Weasley

PS: Your birthday is close? When is it? What sort of present would you like?

\- - -

Dear Ginevra Molly Weasley,

I think you have a nice name. It reminds me of Jennifer, which is a Muggle name I hear a lot, but it’s different. At least your name isn’t an actual word like Harry is. Did you know that “harry” is a word, not just “hairy”? It means “bother.” Once the blokes at my school learned that, they thought it would be very funny to “harry hairy Harry.” It’s one of the few insults Dudley didn’t come up with himself, probably because he doesn’t pay attention to learning new words. I don’t even know if he actually knows how to read or if he’s just faking it.

My birthday is July 31, which I think is about a week away, but I’m not sure what the date is. I know my birthday is a Friday, though. Please don’t get me anything; we barely know each other. And I’m actually a bit sad about my birthday for a very silly reason.

A year and a half ago, my aunt gave me a picture of my mum from when she was ten. That picture of my mum is very special to me. She’s who I tell when I’m happy or sad or afraid. She made me want to have friends, which is how I met my friend Ellen and got brave enough to talk to you. Dumbledore and Mr. Ollivander told me how great a witch she was, and I want to be as good as her at magic. This whole year of me being ten has been brilliant. I’m scared that when I turn eleven, the magic will go away.

It’s stupid, I know. But my mum means a lot to me. Please don’t think I’m a freak.

From,  
Harry

\- - -

Dear Harry,

Errol got back safely! Thank you for taking care of him while he rested. 

Don’t say that we don’t know each other. Here’s stuff I know about you: your name is Harry James Potter and your birthday is 31 July 1980. You live with your aunt, uncle, and cousin Dudley because your parents were killed by You-Know-Who when you were a baby. You’re a wizard but didn’t know it for a long time. You have a friend called Ellen but not really any others because Dudley is a bully. You know about football and Quidditch and a lot of muggle things. Your parents were very gifted wizards and you’re bound to be just like them. You love your parents even though you can’t remember meeting them. You’re a kind person who is thankful for everything he has. You risk getting in trouble to feed an owl. Your grandparents are called Fleamont and Euphemia. You stay in a cupboard under the stairs but act like it doesn’t matter.

I know plenty about you! And it’s too late anyway, because I told my mum that your birthday is coming up, and she loves to celebrate birthdays. Mine is the next in the family to come up, 11 August. But now that she knows yours, you are bound to get something. I can’t get you much, but I want to make sure that you turning eleven is even better than when you turned ten. By the way, eleven is very important to wizards, because it’s when we’re old enough to go to Hogwarts. And I don’t think your reason is silly at all. Of course you would want to be close to your mum, since that picture is all you have of her. But now you can learn about all the things she did when she was eleven! 

From,  
Ginny

\- - -

Dear Ginny,

The truth is, I don’t really know what I want for my birthday. I haven’t had many birthday gifts before. The last one I got was from Ellen last year, a book about gardening. It’s a bit like my herbology textbook but for Muggles. There isn’t much to do here at Privet Drive when I’m not writing to you or taking care of Hedwig, so I started to read my schoolbooks. Herbology seems the most like Muggle classes, but wizards use some potion ingredients that Muggles could find, too, like mistletoe and hemlock and foxglove. 

Tell me more about your family and how you celebrate birthdays. Here, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon usually buy Dudley more presents than he can count (of course, I’m not sure Dudley knows how to count past ten) and then take him and one of his friends on some adventure. Last year, our Aunt Marge came over and they all went to a fancy lunch. This year, Dudley got to go to the zoo with his friend Piers. I actually got to go with them since nobody could watch me, and it was amazing! Until I accidentally vanished the glass to a snake tank and Dudley fell in. The snake was quite nice and only wanted to go home to Brazil, but my Uncle Vernon got really mad. 

Nobody pays much attention to my birthday, which is alright. Aunt Petunia didn’t ask to have to take care of me. Last year’s was by far the best, since Ellen’s family took me out. We actually went to the zoo as well, and that was when I got my gardening book. I didn’t get to talk to any snakes that time or any other animals for that matter. Do wizards have zoos? If not, then you really ought to try a Muggle one. They have every kind of animal you can think of, except for maybe dragons and unicorns and phoenixes, and even places where you can pet the little ones. My favorites are the tigers and monkeys. Maybe we could go together someday!

From,  
Harry

\- - -

Dear Harry,

I have never heard of a wizard zoo, but I think they ought to make one! My brother Charlie studies dragons in Romania and wants to be an expert in magical animals. Next time I write to him, I’ll ask if he knows of any magical zoos or how to make one. Mum has never let me see a real dragon before, but the pictures in Charlie’s old textbooks look wicked.

You wanted to know about my family, so here it is. My Dad works for the Ministry making sure that wizards don’t do mean things to Muggles like cursing teapots or bewitching toilets. He loves Muggles and wants to know everything about them. Mum stays at home and cooks and cleans and does all of that Mum-stuff. She loves us a lot but she can yell really loud if you do something naughty. Bill is the oldest, and he works for Gringotts in Egypt as a Curse Breaker. He’s the coolest person I’ve ever met, and it’s not just because he likes me best. You know about Charlie now, so next is Percy. He’s Prefect, you know, which is all he’s talked about since Mum and I came home with the news. It’s even worse now that he got the letter with the badge. I think Percy wants to be a good older brother, but he’s just too serious. Fred and George are the opposite. They’re twins, third-years at Hogwarts, and the funniest people alive. They get detentions all the time, which makes Mum furious. Last is Ron, who’s your year at Hogwarts. He loves Quidditch and chess but he isn’t all that good. I guess it must be hard for him since I’m a girl and the rest of our brothers are older. But he doesn’t have to be so rude about it.

Birthdays for us always include a lot of Mum’s cooking and a great cake. There are presents but mostly food—otherwise none of us would have any spending money because six is a lot of siblings—except for special birthdays. Like for Ron’s eleventh, he got Grandpa Septimus’s chess set. Or on Charlie’s seventeenth, he got a wristwatch with a dragon hide band. The next time I write you, I should be sending you your present.

From,  
Ginny

PS: Your turn to talk about your family.

\- - -

Dear Ginny,

Please tell your whole family I said hello. I hope I get to meet them. I’m sure I’ll meet Percy, Fred, George, and Ron, at least, considering we’ll be in school together. How big is Hogwarts? Do students know everyone in their year? If so, I hope Ron isn’t as bad as you think. And I’m sure he’s way better than me at both Quidditch and chess. 

My family is boring and not worth talking about but here goes. Uncle Vernon is a very big man with a moustache, sort of like a walrus. He works at a factory that makes drills. Mostly he likes to complain about things. My Aunt Petunia was my Mum’s sister. She is tall skinny, and looks sort of like a horse. Her favorite things are to gossip and to spoil Dudley. She thinks Dudley looks like an angel, but I think he looks like a pig in a wig. He’s fat and blond with a pink face. Before Dumbledore came and explained that I’m magic, Dudley liked to hit me. Now he seems to think I’m going to turn him into a rabbit or something. I know Dumbledore said we have to be careful about doing magic around Muggles, but I really would like to learn how to turn Dudley into an animal. A slug, maybe.

Please don’t go to too much trouble with my gift. It’s exciting enough that I have Hedwig and get to go to a school for wizards. 

From, Harry

\- - -

Harry,

I hope your aunt and uncle don’t get too upset over the extra owl, but I had to wish you a happy birthday. Dumbledore sends his regards. He also told me about some of the stuff you two talked about in London, and he has me on a bit of a secret mission for you. Can’t say no more than that, and can’t say when it’ll be ready. Anyway have a good birthday and tell Hegwig I said hello.

Hagrid

\- - -

Dear Harry,

Here is a guide to your Best Birthday Ever! The box is a little big for Hedwig, so we borrowed Percy’s new owl, Hermes, to help.

The plant: This is a succulent, but you probably know that because Dad told me they’re Muggle plants. It came from Mum’s ingredient garden (with permission) because I liked the colors. Mum says it only needs six hours of sunlight and occasional waterings but I told her you might have trouble doing that SO

The flowerpot: Mum and Dad charmed it for me. It should take care of the sunlight problem, you not having windows, and keep it mostly hydrated. Mum says to give it some water when the soil feels dry, which shouldn’t be too much. And I painted the outside myself. It’s a Quidditch pitch, since you’ve never seen one at all, and the players are from the Holyhead Harpies, the best team. Anyway I sort of wanted to name your plant, but I thought that should be your job. If you don’t want to name it, that’s okay, too. I just thought you could use the company with Hedwig gone so much.

The socks: Mum knits. A. Lot. She’s teaching me, but I’m not very good. So of course, she had to knit you something, but it’s too warm for a sweater, so socks it is. She thought green would go well with your eyes, and I agree. Ron is worried that you’ll think we want you to go to Slytherin House, since green is their main color, but that’s ridiculous. You’re the Boy Who Lived, who defeated You-Know-Who as a baby, which is the least Slytherin thing I can think of.

The poster: I know you don’t know Ron yet, but he got really worried when he saw me painting the flowerpot. The Harpies aren’t his team, so he thought I was making you biased. Anyway, he took one of his Chudley Cannons posters down to show you ‘what a real Quidditch team is.’ I acted all mad at first but really, I am happy that he has one less Cannons poster, since his room is covered with them. As you can see, they’re bright orange and not very pretty when they cover a whole room. (They also aren’t very good.) But Ron loves them and wants you to have something to brighten up your cupboard.

The bag of slugs: Fred and George wanted to include something for your cousin. (I hope you don’t mind that I told them about him.) These are actually Jelly Slugs, a wizard sweet, except that the twins put some real slugs from our garden in there, too. If your cousin is as dense as you say he is, maybe he won’t know the difference. Maybe you can start calling him Slugley.

Everything else: Mum is a bit crazy about food, so she insisted we all pitch in to make sure you’re eating enough. You have some Chocolate Frogs, slug-free Jelly Slugs, Ice Mice, a corned beef sandwich, Mum’s specialty treacle tart, and a chocolate cake. The lightning out of frosting was my idea. The box should be charmed to keep everything from melting.

Anyway, the whole family wanted to wish you happy birthday themselves:

Hello again, Harry! This is Mrs. Weasley. Ginevra has told us so much about you. I hope you have a delightful birthday, and please write if you’re ever going hungry. You looked a little thin when we met. Thank you for being such a kind friend to our daughter. 

Happy birthday, Harry Potter! My Ginny has told me so many fascinating things about you are your Muggle family. Do you think you could explain more about the drills your uncle makes? Perhaps send a diagram? And how does the Muggle postal system work, exactly? And I am very interested in your televisions, too. Thank you for being Ginny’s friend, and please do not hesitate to ask if you have any questions about the wizarding world. 

Dear Harry Potter, I want to wish you a very happy birthday. My name is Percy Weasley, and I am sure Ginny has told you about me. I would like to thank you for your service to the wizarding world in defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. In fact, that day is one of my happiest memories, though my younger siblings were not old enough to remember. If you would like any assistance once you start at Hogwarts, I would be happy to help. If your life thus far is any model, you are sure to be sorted into Gryffindor, where I will be one of your Prefects. I would be happy to tutor you if you like. Once again, have a very happy birthday.

Harry Potter! Happy birthday! And give old Slugley our gift! – Fred and George (Also thanks for defeating You-Know-Who and all that.)

Harry, my name is Ron, Ginny’s youngest brother. I hope you have a great birthday. I know Ginny’s been writing to you about Quidditch and stuff, but don’t let her convince you to support the Harpies. That poster there is Galvin Gudgeon, the Chudley Cannons seeker. He’s a pretty cool bloke. I guess we’ll see each other at the start of term.

Happy birthday, Harry.

From,  
Ginny

PS: Just kidding! You’re probably wondering what’s inside the smaller box. It’s the most important part of your present. I asked Percy for some advice about potions, and he helped me find the recipe for a potion that makes Muggle pictures move! He says it isn’t sure if it will work on a picture as old as yours, but it’s worth a try. Just soak the photograph in the potion overnight in the dark. If it works, the potion will be gone in the morning, and your picture will be moving. Let me know how it goes!


End file.
